CHAPTER ONE

The sun room was dark. Sam Larkin, lean and naked beneath the robe that hung loosely from his body, sat looking up through the skylight at the stars suspended above his house, defying, by their very position, any human logic. His long, sandy-gray hair, newly-washed, was splayed on his shoulders. It was only in the privacy of his home that it wasn’t neatly combed straight back into a pony tail and clasped with a hand-tooled, silver holder. He was handsome by the standards of people who didn’t judge worth and bearing by the length of one’s hair or what they wore. Sam Larkin abided by the old Hemingway quote that “wearing underwear was as formal as he ever hoped to get.” Sharp, hazel eyes cast an aura of a man at peace with himself.

His bare feet rested on the polished Mexican tiles that still bore some remembrance of the day’s heat, their remaining warmth just a few degrees south of the night air that was now cooling. It was April. Hot in the daytime—though not as hot as it would be in full summer when the devil seemed to fan the flames— and dropping to a full chill during the night. The preface to summer and a reminder of winter, such as it is in the lowcountry of South Carolina.

Larkin’s house was situated to look out over three hundred yards of marsh to Jones Run Creek, a brackish tributary like hundreds of others that flowed through the marshes and against dry land before emptying into the sea a mile or so from where he sat. There were other houses on the four-mile-long spit of land called Fiddler’s End, but the closest was out of sight and sound. It was quiet and solitude, energies he had been deprived of for four years until he moved to

Matthew’s Island, that drew him to the place. At first look, he decided it was where he would live. Maybe forever.

Occasionally he saw diffused light flash from distant and silent heat lightning. No sound except Nature’s own and the subdued ticking of a wall clock. His body was relaxed, approaching sleep until the sound of a boat-motor easing through one of the marsh capillaries offended the quiet and turned his attention from the stars to the water. He listened for a moment. It was an Evinrude. Light and tinny, shallow, not sounding the power of a Merc.

The sound, the night and his imagination transported him backward in time to a place he didn’t want to be and couldn’t avoid remembering. He could feel the damp moisture forming on the skin of his forearms. He felt a shiver as rational thought worked to relocate him from the past to the present.

He got up from the chair where he had been reading, until he caught the stars through the skylight, opened the screen slider and walked onto the deck, which extended to within twenty feet of the water’s edge. A ghost light moved slowly, in concert with the sound of the motor, along a water path, its glow interrupted by dwarfed stands of wax myrtle that grew wild on the dry-land holidays that peppered the marsh. It appeared not unlike a summer firefly. Someone running a trotline. Maybe not.

Nothing was ever what anyone supposed it would be, but maybe there was no way anything was supposed to be. It wasn’t a new idea, but it was bothering him more lately. During the short time Sam Larkin had lived on the island, he had seen and heard a lot of things that left questions and suspicions in his mind. Questions he didn’t want to know the answers to. Boats running the creek in the middle of the night, shrimp trawlers moving around when there was no season to work, and conversations at Harry Tom Cooper’s Boat Dock that were hushed when he came within hearing range.

He was in this place, had chosen it, because he didn’t know anyone, and no one knew Sam Larkin. No ties, no relationships, no past, no personal responsibilities save his own. It was the way he wanted it. Now he was seeing and learning too much and felt himself being drawn in to things he didn’t want to know, much the same as he had been in Louisiana. He wouldn’t let history repeat itself, no matter what.

He stood in the dark watching and listening, knowing the man on the water was unaware of the eyes and ears that followed his light and the sound of his boat. Larkin didn’t want to watch, but, out of an instinct for self-preservation, felt compelled. After a few minutes, he concluded that whoever it was had finished whatever he had been doing and was on his way home.

When he came to the lowcountry, he didn’t plan to work, just to leave everything behind, to paint and think and put his life back together. But, plans aside, he invested too much in the house, and, even though he did a lot of the work himself, his finances dwindled and work was the only option. Though he didn’t fit the mold, he was qualified and managed to get a job teaching biology in the local school district. The job wasn’t intrusive and allowed him time to read and develop his skills as an artist.

The painting came to some degree of proficiency rather quickly. He had drawn since he was a child and later took a few classes at The University of New Orleans. Here subject matter abounded. Matthew’s Island teemed with wildlife living out their struggle for survival against a magnificent background. From the smallest fiddler crab to the largest antlered buck, that challenge was present in almost any direction one looked. It was the subject of most of his pictures: the war between serenity and violence, the Garden of Eden and Hell. A contrast of light and dark, much as his life had been.

The fading rumble of the Evinrude brought him out of his thoughts. It was one-thirty and another workday was looming. He went back into the sun room, secured the screen and glass sliders, picked up the book he was reading, took one last look at the beautiful emptiness surrounding him, felt grateful for where he was, and went into the house to go to bed.

Isabel Reichert was stylish and smart. Anyone looking at her and observing the way she operated recognized that. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but the well-coifed, short, auburn hair, her height and figure drew attention. She appeared more a lawyer or doctor than a public school administrator. Other administrators—male and female—viewed her with cautious admiration and a small sense of fear. They knew little of the holes in her life and the emptiness that threatened to bury her.

She was irritated when she got out of her car and walked toward the entrance of Covington County High School. As principal of Walklet Middle School, she was required to attend all district in-service days. They were a waste of her time and everyone else’s. The other administrators knew it also, but forcing staff attendance was an exertion of their minor power. The appeal of the prestige of her position had faded for Isabel Reichert long ago. When she embarked on her career, she, like so many others believed she could make a difference. It was naïve, but her idealism guided her. She smiled ruefully when her marriage came to mind as a parallel. She had thought hers would be unlike that of her parents, the constant bitching and ultimate divorce. In both cases, it had taken only a short time for reality to set in.

Coffee and pastries for the attendees were available in the cafeteria, where she knew the crowd would already be assembled. The teachers would be gathered en masse to load up on the freebies. Isabel couldn’t deny them that; coffee and pastries were the only perks they could ever hope to get. She wished she could avoid the cafeteria, find a seat in the back of the auditorium and be as insignificant as possible However, not only was being present a requirement, but being seen was a necessity.

Administrators, board members and district officials clustered in a corner of the room and watched—with obvious superiority as their charges complained about the educational whimsies of the moment. They were children teaching children, she thought. No touch of the real world or real-life experience among any of them. Well, except one, she thought, as Sam Larkin walked through the cafeteria doors.

He went to the coffee urn, filled a cup and walked out to the plaza where students were allowed to eat lunch in good weather. He put his coffee down, lit a cigarette and sat on one of the table tops, his feet on the bench. He wore jeans, a blue denim work shirt and moccasins with no socks. Socks were required by the administrative dress code, and smoking was restricted to one small area that was difficult to get to and surrounded by odoriferous cafeteria dumpsters. It went without saying, however, that Sam Larkin would never adhere to that or any other rule he felt was unreasonable if he so chose.

Looking at him, she felt a mild sense of skepticism and uneasiness. It was exciting. Few men stimulated that kind of reaction in her. Larkin was an enigma, building that house and living out on Fiddler’s End all by himself. She wondered what he did out there all alone. In the district two years and no one knew anything about him. He certainly didn’t look like a high school biology teacher. There were no rumors or gossip about him that she knew of, and that in itself, in a public school district, was unusual. She had never come into contact with someone so insulated. The man was intriguing.

“Isabel. How are you?” Harold Taylor asked with a smile that caught her by surprise and made her skin crawl. What she resented most about his interruption was losing the fantasy she was creating.

In Isabel Reichert’s opinion, no one in the administrative cluster was more obsequious than the principal of Covington County High School. She was glad their paths didn’t cross often. He was fat. Not obese. Pear-shaped. And he was a classic bully; she recognized that the first time she met him. Gracious and subservient to anyone with any strength or power, and demanding, unreasonable and threatening to anyone he perceived to be weak.

“I’m fine, Harold. I’d rather be in bed, but all things considered….” She left it hanging.

“Sounds good to me,” he said with a grin. Isabel Reichert cut him to the ground with a look. “I’m trying to find Dr. Hamilton. Have you seen him around? He said he would be here this morning. I want him to introduce the chairperson of the evaluation committee.” The purpose of the in-service was to welcome the committee from the Association of Southern Schools—commonly referred to as “ASS” by the teaching staff—who were to begin their five-year evaluation of the Covington County schools.

“No, I haven’t seen him. Cedrick doesn’t usually come to these things.” She knew Taylor would resent the intimacy with which she referred to the Superintendent of Schools.

“I guess I’d better check around then. He said he would be here. If he doesn’t show I guess I’ll have to do it myself,” he said, already scanning the room.

“You can handle it, Harold.” She couldn’t help smiling. On the scale of assholes,

Harold Taylor was a ten. She turned back to where Sam Larkin was sitting.

“Bitch,” Harold Taylor muttered under his breath as he walked away. Shame, he thought, bustling from group to group, playing his role as principal of the host school, her figure was exceptionally good for a woman her age. Of course there were no children, he knew that. In fact, there were rumors that she preferred women, but she was married, so he didn’t take those seriously. He visualized her naked. She looked more like a thirty-something than a forty-three-year-old.

His musings were interrupted by the PA system. “Mr. Taylor? You are needed in the auditorium. The committee has arrived.” Taylor looked around to see who had heard the announcement, stood up straighter and strode across the room.

“I’m coming,” he said to no one, but loud enough for several people near him to hear. As he passed the windows that looked out on the plaza, he shook his head in disgust. Sam Larkin was incorrigible and flaunted it. He had tried to get rid of him, but could make no progress. The man stood in the face of authority, unshakable. Teachers were known for their lack of courage, but that didn’t apply to Larkin. He was quietly intimidating and that was threatening in Taylor’s eyes. There was little he could do, however. The man had a continuing contract, tenure by any other name. He would have to catch him committing a felony, which he didn’t believe he was likely to do.

Sangaree Island, the outermost of the barrier islands and nineteen miles east of Covington, could not be considered a playground for the rich, but no one poor lived there. Rumored to have been frequented by pirates during the golden age of privateers, the island had remained sparsely-settled and mosquito-infested until the fifties when a visionary real estate entrepreneur saw it as a paradise-in-the-rough. It had developed slowly into a gated, private island with only a limited tourist business. It had, indeed, evolved into the island the visionary had seen.

Morgan Hannah, widowed and comfortable at thirty-six, owned a beach front home toward the southern end of the island. She had come to Sangaree from Atlanta. Her husband, Ben Hannah, a manufacturer of highly critical optical lenses used in bomb sights and other military applications, had been brought down by a massive coronary one Christmas Eve as he drove home from his office. Morgan, with neither the desire nor the expertise to carry on the business, liquidated everything they owned there, invested the proceeds and moved to Sangaree.

It was a good life. She didn’t expect it to be permanent, but it was a good interim place. She didn’t allow herself to become deeply involved in island activities nor the social scenes either on Sangaree or in Covington, but she was seen often enough that most people knew who she was. She was admired by men of the area and envied by women who saw her life as an impossible dream.

Morgan was sleeping peacefully when the telephone awakened her. It was only seven-thirty. Bright sunlight was cascading through the open windows that faced the beach, and the sound of a quiet surf provided a reassuring heartbeat that the world had begun another day.

“So what are you doing at this early hour?” She heard Bill Reichert say. His smile carried through the line.

“Me? What about you? Are you at work already?”

“I asked first.”

“I was sleeping. What any sane person would be doing at this hour of the morning.”

“I didn’t know that sleeping at seven-thirty in the morning was a guaranteed certification of sanity.”

“Depends on why you’re awake.”

“I wish I were there,” he said.

“That would be a good reason.” Morgan enjoyed playing these little games, though they weren’t games in the negative sense. She didn’t love him, but she could apply it for the moment, and the moment was all she was really concerned with. For the moment.

“What about this afternoon?” he asked.

“Where?”

“I’ll come out there.”

“That’s fine with me if you’re willing, but you said you were worried about coming out here so much.”

“If anyone asks, I’m taking a drive-by of a house we’re considering financing. The perks of being a banker,” he said. “I’ve got a loan approval meeting at ten-thirty which will be over by noon, and a meeting with Charley Clay at twelve-thirty, but he never dallies. It won’t take long. Do a quick swing through the bank, greet the girls on the teller line, and I’m out of there by two.”

“Brave and brazen, aren’t you?” she said.

“As long as I can hide the car in the garage.”

“Of course.” He sounded like a little boy sneaking out for a smoke. She had to stifle a laugh.

“I’ll be there at two-thirty, quarter to three.”

“Good. That’ll give me a little beach time. My garage will be open.”

He laughed. “See ya.”

When she hung up the phone, Morgan sat in bed and gazed out at the vast expanse of ocean stretching out before her. She was happy. There were no worries about self-worth or accomplishments though it wasn’t because of a lack of intelligence. There was no reason or compulsion to move on, pressure herself, get entangled or achieve or any of the other things people drove themselves crazy over. She didn’t need to “get a life” as some of her friends suggested She already had one.

She cared for Bill Reichert; they were good for each other. If her husband hadn’t died at forty-two, if she needed money and was forced to work, if she were desperate enough to seek occasional lays that held no promise save a small hope for future security, she wouldn’t have gotten involved with Bill Reichert. A married banker, of all things, but he was exciting and good-looking and they had fun. No responsibility. She didn’t believe, under the circumstances, that was a bad thing.

His money intrigued her. She didn’t want it, didn’t need it. The mystery was that it was there. He spent a lot more than banker’s wages, regardless of position, and she didn’t believe he had the courage to embezzle. There was no talk of an inheritance, and his wife was principal of a middle school. It didn’t add up. She found that fascinating.

Morgan pulled herself from bed, went into the bathroom and began to fill the Roman tub. A stimulating whirlpool to wake up, an hour or so at the beach, and she would be ready for whatever the day offered. Catching a glimpse of her body in the mirror, she paused and approved, picked up a couple of mail-order catalogues and stepped into the tub to steam while it was filling.

Sam Larkin sat in the meeting, but he wasn’t there. He was outside himself. When Harold Taylor announced a mid-afternoon break at one-thirty, he left the building. He had heard enough.

Most of the teachers he came into contact with were quite different than those he remembered from his own youth, people who took pride in what they were doing, had dignity and were involved. He remembered them as strong people, role models. This new breed seemed to have no interests outside of their own families and complaining about their positions. By the time they were thirty, they were counting the years to retirement. He often wondered if they had ever done any kind of work they truly loved and enjoyed.

He castigated himself for his criticism. The teachers were, for the most part, good, well-intentioned, honest—if naïve and insecure—people. They were only dishonest with themselves. That thought made him ask some pretty probing questions about himself and his own honesty.

He never considered himself incompetent because he had done too many things far removed from the classroom. Teaching wasn’t his life, but for now the job worked for him, gave him time to put himself back in order. It was something he did well because of the other things he had done in his life. He taught what he knew, what he considered important, and even in the field of biology, those things didn’t come off the pages of a textbook. He never allowed the job to intrude on the part of his life that he considered vital. If that made him a bad teacher, so be it. Someone had once told him that anytime a job becomes your life, you don’t do well at either.

As Larkin walked across the parking lot to the old, green Land Rover that had been in service for more than two hundred and fifty thousand miles, Isabel Reichert was heading toward her car as well. When she spotted him, she stopped and waited.

“It looks like we caught each other,” she said as he approached.

“I guess it does,” he answered. He had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen on a man—large, amber-brown and liquid. He wasn’t physically imposing, but the eyes, the graying hair pulled back in a pony tail that hung well below his shoulders, the lean, tanned body and the lack of compromise in his demeanor gave him stature that height and weight never could.

“I hate these things,” she said. “Guess I shouldn’t say that in my position.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Hey, it’s Friday; what can I say? How’s life out on the island?” She saw the puzzled look on his face. Was she trying to keep a conversation going where there was none?

“Best place in the world to live as far as I’m concerned. Of course I didn’t know it was so much work to maintain a house, which is the main reason I left the meeting.”

“What’s waiting for you to do?”

“General stuff,” he said.

She took his point. “Guess I’d better let you get about your business then. I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me. Good to see you.”

“You, too,” he said and continued toward the Rover.

She heard that he was highly intelligent, well-read and artistic but couldn’t imagine it to look at him. He looked rough, yet in the few times their paths had crossed she heard a gentleness in the way he spoke, and he spoke well when he did speak, which wasn’t often. She had the impression that he preferred to listen and draw conclusions. “Rough” was probably closer to the truth. When he looked at her, his eyes never leaving hers, she got the impression that he knew everything about her without knowing anything at all. That was unsettling and appealing.

“You’re being paranoid,” she said aloud to herself. She smiled.

The drive from Covington to Matthew’s Island was quiet time for Sam Larkin.

Occasionally he would put in a tape, some Jimmy Reed or Dale Hawkins. Most of the time he just listened to his own internal music and took in the beauty of what he saw passing by. He was looking forward to the physical work awaiting him.

He had undertaken to extend the small deck off the master bedroom in both length and depth. A mason had put up the cinder block columns; the rest of it he was determined to do himself. He found it interesting and calming to build. Each new tool he used for the first time and each new construction problem he faced was a learning experience. He had never done any building before and was surprised to find that he possessed some minor talent for it. Being forced to finish what he couldn’t pay the builders to do had given him a college degree in the manual arts.

From a distance his house was hardly visible. The entrance, a long dirt road canopied by huge live oaks hung heavy with Spanish moss, seemed to close in behind any traveler who ventured there. The house was an abbreviated lowcountry-style structure that blended into the growth and earth colors that surrounded it. It was situated so that there was a long-distance view in three directions, yet from the marsh, it was virtually invisible unless it was night and the lights were on. It was a purposeful placement.

Stopping the Rover, he noticed a boat moored to the dock he had built on the channel that passed within twenty yards of the dry land on which his house sat. Once in awhile, someone Would get confused in the maze of the marsh and tie up to ask “how the hell to get out of here,” but this was not that kind of boat. It was a Cobia with two 200 horse Mercs on the back. Built for speed. He got out and started toward the house.

“Sam Larkin,” a voice called out. “Ray Breslin, South Carolina Environmental Resources Officer.”

He was focusing on the boat when he parked and hadn’t seen the uniformed man standing next to one of the cinder block pilings that held up the sun room and the deck. There was a woman with him, also in uniform. She was as attractive as her uniform and no make-up would allow her to be, he thought. Female law enforcement officers had their place, he guessed, but maybe not out in the wild. There was different kind of outlaw in the natural environment.

“What can I do for you?” he asked as he approached the pair. He was apprehensive, a hangover from Louisiana.

“Nothin’ in particular,” Breslin said. Sam had seen the man in Covington once or twice at waterfront festivities and several times at Harry Tom Cooper’s Boat Dock out near the inlet. He looked to be the consummate good old boy. Probably had a sticker on his tinted-window pickup truck that said, “American Born, Southern By The Grace Of God.” He was overweight, but he looked strong. Probably an ex-Marine. Sam smiled at the oxymoron.

“What kind of nothin’ in particular are you lookin’ for?” he asked.

“Just that. Nothin’ in particular. This is Karen Chaney, new officer in the district. She’ll be replacin’ Jimmy Lee. I was out showin’ her around and thought you ought to know who she was. You might be seein’ her patrollin’ the marsh on occasion, and I wouldn’t want you to shoot her for trespassin’ or anything. This is Sam Larkin.”

Karen Chaney stuck out her hand. Five feet seven, he guessed, medium-length blond hair streaked by the sun, a good figure that wasn’t hidden by the uniform. Blue eyes. Her face and arms were burnished brown. She would be a pleasant addition to the area. Her eyes locked on his as they shook hands. Sam sensed a professionalism he rarely saw in local wildlife officers.

“Pleased to meet you, Officer Chaney,” Larkin said. “And I don’t shoot people. Besides you can’t trespass on the marsh; it’s everybody’s.” Her handshake was firm, practiced to fit in a working environment with men. However, unlike some of the professional ball-breakers he had come into contact with, it didn’t appear designed for intimidation or equalization. The Ruger .357 magnum she wore precluded any necessity for that.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Larkin. Nice to know there’s someone out here if I get in trouble.” He waited for “I’ve heard a lot about you,” but it didn’t come. He guessed she didn’t lie. There was an awkward silence. “Your place is beautiful. I would never have seen it if Officer Breslin hadn’t pointed it out.” She was smiling.

Sam Larkin decided that his first impression was valid; she was definitely attractive. And her eyes flashed. They broadcast energy while she stood perfectly still, took him in and saw him or so he thought. Some people had that ability. He had come to the conclusion long ago that people seldom saw each other or themselves as more than just a part of whatever background they surrounded themselves with. Knowing that and avoiding it was an advantage. Seeing people and the world as most everyone else did was dangerous, a lesson he had learned the hard way. That would never happen again.

“I like it,” he said. “I just regret it took me so long to get here.”

“You’re from Louisiana aren’t you, Larkin?” Breslin pronounced the state’s name with an emphasis on lose.

“Yes,” Sam answered. He wouldn’t give the man anything. It was obvious, for whatever reason, that the man didn’t like him, which was fine.

“Where ’bouts?”

“All over. Shreveport, Baton Rouge, New Orleans and lots of little parishes here and there.” He paused. “Officer Breslin, Officer Chaney, I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but I’ve got some work to do on that new deck over there, and if I don’t get busy, I won’t get anything accomplished before dark. Y’all are welcome to hang around; I can visit while I work. You might even be of some help. I’ve got two hammers.” He smiled.

“Naw. We’ve got to be gettin’ along. Just wanted you to meet Karen here.” The name change was pointed; it seemed to make the female officer uncomfortable. She would have to deal with Ray Breslin sooner or later. Sam had no doubt she could handle it.

“I’m glad you did. Been a pleasure,” he said. “If I can ever help….”

“Thank you. I’ll count on it. It was my pleasure also,” Karen Chaney said. The two officers headed down to where their boat was tied up. Sam Larkin watched them leave.

The uniforms, the boat, all of it put him back in Louisiana. Back among men who drank Everclear grain alcohol when they didn’t make their own, men who could slide a pirogue through a cypress swamp in darkness as deep as an underground cavern. Among women who served up boudin and crawfish and etouffe’ and gumbos that would scorch the whole internal body of the toughest man. Those were good memories, and in some moments, he wished he could go back to that time, make more memories like those. Others were not as pleasant.

He had no idea what Ray Breslin wanted, but it was more than his meeting Karen Chaney.